He pursed his lips the same way Reeve did. “After a thousand years of medical school, as my daughter says, I think I can do a little more than cut and sew.”
He set the needle in place and pushed, and my vein rolled. My entire arm felt the sting, and I hissed in a breath.
“Sorry,” he muttered, trying again. And wouldn’t you know it, he missed a second time.
I could only bite my tongue and content myself with glaring at the top of his head.
“Sorry,” he muttered. Finally he succeeded.
A few minutes later, he was labeling the packed tubes. “I’ll have the results tomorrow.”
What would he find? I rubbed my hand over the second heartbeat and forced myself to breathe. “Thanks.”
My stomach growled, embarrassing me. I snuck into the kitchen and searched for my bagels. They weren’t where I’d left them, and they weren’t in the pantry. Someone must have eaten them. I gazed longingly at the boxed desserts and even the jars of vegetables, but still backed out without touching anything I shouldn’t and made my way to Nana’s room. I’d never thanked her for the journal. I knocked, waited.
“Your grandmother went to church,” a soft voice said from behind me.
I turned and saw one of the maids dusting a side table. “Thanks.”
Nana and I always went to church together. I hated that I’d missed. Especially since it probably seemed like I’d blown her off. Again. I hoped she wasn’t upset.
I trudged to my room. Avoiding the mirrors, I sat at my desk and thumbed through the journal. I expected to start by rereading what had already been decoded. Instead, I found that every word was once again hidden from my understanding. But...how could that be?
Frowning, I went through every page slowly, line by line, studying every symbol, every number. Nope. No miraculous unveiling.
Must simplify the to-do list: Learn how to kill the zombie inside me without the journal. Actually kill her.
Where to start? My sister? Maybe she’d learned something else about my situation. “Emma. If you can swing another visit, I’d love to see you.”
I had to wait longer than usual, but she did, eventually, arrive. “Hey there,” she said.
I smiled at her. “You came.”
“I told you. I’ll always come.” She stood beside the desk, fingering the ends of her skirt. “You look better.”
“Thank you.”
“So...whatcha doing?”
I lifted the book. “Apparently our great-great-great-grandfather wrote a journal about zombie slaying. Only he wrote it in some kind of code, and I can’t decipher it. So I started to wonder whether you’d learned anything new.”
“Not yet.” She rubbed her hands together. “But let me take a crack at the journal.”
Leaning over my shoulder, she scanned the pages and pouted with disappointment. “I was hoping to crack the code with my genius mind and rub it in your face forever, but I can read the words no problem.”
I stared down at the still-coded pages. “How?”
“I don’t know. I just can. Everything just looks normal to me.”
“Read something to me, then.”
“Okay...how about there?” She pointed. “The words are flashing at me.”
Flashing? I nodded.
“‘I’ve heard we need darkness to balance light,’” she read, “‘and light to balance darkness. I say we have no need of darkness, period. It confuses. It hurts. It tortures. It ruins. And really, darkness cannot remain with light. Light will always chase it away. Think about it. We kill the zombies with the fire from our hands—fire produces light. And they, the zombies, are the ultimate darkness. With a touch, they can be extinguished for eternity.’”
I let the words settle in my mind before turning them over again and again. Could Z.A. be killed by the fire the slayers produced? My fire? If so, if a slayer pressed his—or her—palm against my chest, would I die, too?
There was only one way to find out.
Was it worth the risk, though?
“Want me to read more?” Emma asked.
“Not right now.” There was a tremor in my voice. Crap. I didn’t want her to know what I was contemplating.